I Could Give You the Moon

Chapter 1 Chanel

Chanel

The best thing about heartbreak is how spectacularly predictable it is.

I’ve watched it play out enough times to know exactly what to expect, how to react. First, there’s flat-out denial. He won’t hurt me, I swear. He isn’t like that. He was just getting lunch with her, and he said himself she was only sitting

on his lap because there weren’t enough seats in the cafeteria. He never lies about anything, so why would he be lying to

me now?

If well-meaning friends remind you about the twenty-five instances where he was, in fact, lying, you pretend not to hear them.

You’re too busy clinging to whatever’s left of your time together, holding out hope that you can find a cure, even if the

relationship is gray in the lips. . . .

Until at some point, the denial collapses under the weight of suspicion, and that’s when the anxiety kicks in—the second stage.

Casual messages from months ago turn into vital evidence, every punctuation mark analyzed for proof of how he texted when he loved you, if he ever loved you, and when he stopped.

In a selfie, the blurry reflection of a girl standing beside him in a coffee-shop window becomes a killing blow.

The rage hasn’t arrived, not yet. But it will, during that third stage, in a violent spiral of midnight venting sessions and deleted conversations and tossed pillows.

My friend Haili is clearly still stuck in the second stage of heartbreak—by far the least fun of them all.

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” she mutters to me, the worried line between her brows illuminated by the warm hotel lobby lights.

She’s fiddling with the diamond charms on her wrist, a nervous gesture I’ve seen her perform like a ritual a hundred times

in the decade I’ve known her. “Maybe I should just ask him. . . .”

I shake my head. “You’re never going to get an actual answer if you just ask about these things. Like, okay, what could he

possibly say? ‘Yeah, you’re right, I snuck out to get dinner with another girl even though we’ve been a thing for two months

already’?”

“But . . . what if he gets mad at me for following him here?” she whispers. “What if he never wants to talk to me again?”

Even though this is yet another expected symptom of second-stage heartbreak, it’s still mind-boggling how the sufferers tend

to focus on how the other person feels.

A memory sneaks up on me: my own mom, sobbing to her friend on the phone when she thought I was out of the house, a silk bathrobe

draped around her shaking shoulders, the crack in her voice as she spoke. He doesn’t love me anymore. Why doesn’t he love me anymore?

I shove it away. Lock it up before bile can rise to my throat.

“The question isn’t whether he wants to talk to you,” I tell Haili firmly, loudly enough to drown out the rattling in the back of my brain, and give her

slender arm a squeeze. “You should start thinking about whether or not you’ll ever talk to him again.”

“I . . . okay.” Even through the dark tint of my sunglasses, I can see her complexion turn pale. “Okay, let’s go find him.”

I make a beeline for the front desk, through the bamboo groves designed to look like they’ve sprung right out of the black

marble floors, and around the indoor pond that’s been trending as the new aesthetic photo spot on Xiaohongshu. Everything here is sleek wood, subdued colors, sophisticated in a way that isn’t

too try-hard. Perfect influencer bait.

Two businessmen stop and stare at me as I brush past them, but I don’t slow my steps. The trick to fitting in anywhere is

to act like you already belong there. Walk with purpose, shoulders straight, eyes ahead.

“Hello.” I greet the receptionist in my brightest voice. “Can you please point us in the direction of the Sky Restaurant?”

The receptionist glances up from her laptop and offers a smile almost as fake and wide as mine. “Yes, sure.” Then her attention

slides past me, to Haili, and I follow her gaze with a wince. Haili looks like she’s on the verge of having a breakdown right

in the middle of the perfect lobby. “Is your friend . . . okay?”

“She’s fine,” I say. “She’s just really hungry. We haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Right,” Haili squeaks out unconvincingly. At least she’s stopped gnawing on her lower lip. “I’m really, really hungry. Super hungry.”

But the receptionist studies us with growing suspicion. “Sorry, before I let you through—could I actually have your room number

first?”

I feel Haili stiffen beside me.

“Um,” Haili says. “We don’t . . . we aren’t staying here—”

“I see.” The receptionist’s smile slips all the way off her face. “Well, I’m sorry, then. The restaurant is only open to our

guests and VIP members.”

“That’s okay,” Haili begins to say, but I make a quick motion behind my back for her to leave it to me.

“I’m one of your VIP members,” I say smoothly, though I’m unsure if that’s true. Of course, this in itself wouldn’t have been

an issue a few months ago. My father’s a titanium member at practically every major hotel and airline in the world; if I ever

needed to pop into the lounge or visit a restaurant like this one, all it’d take was a quick phone call from him for the staff

to let me through. But that might prove a little harder now, seeing as I’ve blocked his number and cut off every channel of

communication between us.

“Do you have your membership card with you?” the receptionist presses. “Or your membership number?”

No, and no. But a quicker solution springs to mind—just a considerably more obnoxious one. “You can search for my name,” I

tell her.

“Pardon?” The receptionist blinks at me.

“I’m sure I’m in your system,” I say. “It’s Chanel Cao.”

I wait as she types, her long nails clicking against the keyboard. “Chanel Cao,” she murmurs to herself. A pause as she frowns at the screen, then a slow shake of her head. “No, I’m sorry. Your name’s not coming up.”

Okay, fine. Another way then. I scan the lobby and spot two girls around my age posing by the bamboo. One of them has paired

a cropped Louis Vuitton shirt with simple sweatpants, the ultimate fashion statement to let you know she’s rich but totally

casual about it. The other is in a full floor-length gown, her makeup so heavy that her eyeliner is visible from here, like

Sharpie on a white wall. They rotate between taking photos using their phones with the flash on, then the flash off, then

the digital camera that every influencer has been recommending lately, then their phones again but video this time. Definitely

my target demographic.

I wait until they’ve finished assessing their newest photos before lowering my sunglasses a few deliberate inches, right as

they glance up.

They both do a double take.

Then Louis Vuitton Girl elbows Ballgown Girl, and they exchange a look, curiosity and confirmation at once. Oh my god, could it really be her? Are you seeing this too? Yes, yes, I think so, let’s find out. And they unanimously make the decision to approach me.

“Excuse me,” Louis Vuitton Girl says in a breathless voice. “So sorry to bother you, but are you . . . are you Chanel Cao?”

I grin at them like I’m surprised to be recognized, a little shy, even. “Yeah, I am, hi.”

They exchange another look, that shared language between best friends, a silent scream of excitement and I can’t believe this is happening, and they both start gushing.

“Oh my god, you’re even prettier in real life—I didn’t think that was possible—”

“We’re huge fans. We worship your Instagram, you have no idea—”

“I’ve been following you for years—”

“You’re literally so pretty, like, for real—”

“I love your leather jacket,” Ballgown Girl coos, and makes a motion as if to stroke the material, then thinks better of it, though

her fingers still twitch in my direction. “It’s the limited edition one, right? I heard they only sell it at their flagship

store in Venice and it’s, like, fifty thousand dollars.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they make these anymore,” I agree, though I can’t remember the price. I’m not even the biggest fan of

this jacket—I’d bought it on a whim during my last trip to Venice because it was getting chilly and I happened to be walking

past the store. “I have another really similar jacket at home, to be honest—do you want this one?”

Ballgown Girl’s eyes widen. “What? Are you being serious?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind that it’s secondhand,” I say, shrugging off my jacket and holding it out to her.

“I . . . Would I mind?” Ballgown Girl makes a choked sound as she takes the jacket from me. “I can’t even . . . there’s no way—”

“That’s so sweet of you, what the hell,” Louis Vuitton girl says.

Without turning around, I can sense the receptionist watching the exchange from behind us, the scales of her risk assessment

tipping heavily in my favor.

“Do you have an event at this hotel or something?” Ballgown Girl asks.

“We actually had plans to go to the restaurant, but I forgot my ID,” I tell them, glancing over at the receptionist. “So it’s just taking a while to get my identity verified. . . .”

Ballgown Girl makes an indignant sound on my behalf. “Oh my god, since when did Chanel Cao need verification?” She whirls toward the receptionist. “She’s literally famous. Just look her up right now.”

Before the receptionist has even turned back to her laptop, I know what will show up. The professional photos and viral selfies

and family portraits, everything from my reported height (a few inches above my actual height) to my reported weight (a few

pounds below). All the suggested search results:

is Chanel Cao related to model Coco Cao?

Chanel Cao net worth

Chanel Cao boyfriend

what high school does Chanel Cao go to

Chanel Cao interview

what is Chanel Cao famous for

Chanel Cao Instagram